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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731572">cry to the heavens (but you did it to yourself)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>lavender crowned anon's dream smp collection [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alexis | Quackity Angst, Alexis | Quackity-centric, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon Compliant, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Duck Hybrid Alexis | Quackity, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Hybrids, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internal Conflict, Near Death Experiences, Possession, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Supernatural Elements, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Winged Alexis | Quackity, most characters listed are only mentioned, on account of heart eating</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:13:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,640</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731572</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quackity chose to cope with everything that had happened in his own way. </p><p>And if that way included a lot of thoughts and a little bit of insanity? Well, that was his business, not anyone else's.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexis | Quackity &amp; Jschlatt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>lavender crowned anon's dream smp collection [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>cry to the heavens (but you did it to yourself)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>disclaimer: there's a lot of biblical references in this fic, but i'm not religious and the research i've done is definitely not extensive, so please do take them with a grain of salt!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Quackity always kept a rosary tucked in his pocket, be it jeans, hoodie or a suit jacket. On very rare occasions, he'd hang it on his belt, or stuff it up his sleeve - anything to keep it on his person.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn't because he was a religious man. No, as much as he joked about it, he wasn't a very actively religious man at all. The rosary was more so kept for sentimental purposes as opposed to any religious belief, because it had been gifted to him by his mother soon before she died.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Don't worry, cariño. God will always protect you, even if I'm not able to."</span>
  </em>
  <span> She had said as she pressed it into his palm, planting a kiss to his forehead from where she lay on her bed. At the tender age of ten, Alex - not yet Quackity, but soon, soon afterwards - had respectfully thought that was bullshit. If it were true, his mom would have never died in the first place, never would have left him to fend for himself in a world that was too harsh for a duckling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even so, the rosary always made him feel safer, like a tangible memory of his mom, so he kept it close. He would have worn it around his neck for ease if it wasn't for the fact that his mom had always insisted against it, and he wanted to respect her wishes. He supposed it was almost like a good luck charm in that sense of security; it wasn't like he was actually using it for prayer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time the Great November War concluded, many many years later, Quackity knew for a fact that his rosary didn't hold an ounce of good luck. If anything, it had to be a bad luck charm, considering everything that had happened to him, especially as of recent. As soon as something good seemed to happen, like their victory in the war, something even worse had to overshadow it, like- oh yeah! The fact that L'Manburg was </span>
  <em>
    <span>blown to pieces</span>
  </em>
  <span>, basically negating any victory they had over Schlatt, which was an empty victory to begin with considering the man died of a heart attack, of all things, in front of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He considered throwing it away, as he stood alone, looking out over the crater that was once a nation. Tubbo had gone to talk with Tommy, and while Quackity had ideas on somehow salvaging this land, he knew it wouldn't make much of a difference if he pestered the new president about it now as opposed to telling him later when he was free. The two deserved a moment to themselves anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity got as far as curling his fingers around the beads, pulling the rosary out from where he had coiled it tightly around one of his belt loops, hidden beneath his sweater to give it the best chance of withstanding the earlier war. He stared down at the warm, earthy colours, lifted his head to see the harsh, cold palette of the gaping crater, full of stone and water, and reared his arm back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn't throw it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He exhaled slowly, bringing the rosary close to his heart and closing his eyes, listening to the silence where less than a day ago was bustling city life. He opened his eyes slowly, and began to walk along the edge of the crater, fingers intertwining with the beaded chain. It may not be a good luck charm, but he couldn't really blame it for his bad luck either. Quackity could track down every mistake he ever made and link it back to how he got here if he really wanted to, but he didn't, so he kept that locked away in the back of his mind. Even if he could blame everything on the rosary, he couldn't exactly let it go when it was the only thing left of his late mother.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looking out over the ruins, Quackity thought of Schlatt. He thought of Wilbur. He didn't mourn for either of them - and even if he did, he wouldn't admit it - but he did mourn for a nation that had so much potential despite being destined to fall. He mourned the hopes and dreams of the people, the real heart of the nation. Wilbur's final speech, something he barely caught over everyone else's panic, proved he was possessive over L'Manburg, but it was never truly his as much as it was the people's. If only he understood that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He heard movement nearby, and turned to spot George approaching, not wasting a second before he latched onto the distraction. Quackity stuffed the rosary in his pocket, no longer worried about it falling out in a fight, and started his dramatics with the hazy memory of biblical verses in his mother tongue on the edges of his mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(He thought that Schlatt and Wilbur were Cain and Abel, both of them playing both roles at different points in time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Schlatt was Cain the moment he stepped into power, throwing the first boulder - not the feeble pebbles and stones that had rained down prior - at Wilbur's sanity with his exile and watching as it splintered into a deeper problem without a care in the world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur was Cain when he finally pressed the button, lying right to God's face - or more accurately, his father's - so unbelievably soured by Schlatt's political victory that even in the face of his death, even in the face of L'Manburg's reclamation, he had to burn every trace of Schlatt remaining to the ground. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were both motivated by envy in those instances, he thought, and maybe in many more. Maybe they had always been Cain and Abel, switching between the roles with a practised ease since long before the election, since long before Quackity met either, since the very first day they met.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It didn't matter. It's not like Quackity could ask them anymore.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things were doing okay, all things considered. Quackity was now the Secretary of State, keeping a position in the cabinet, and the rebuilding of New L'Manburg was well underway. It was planned for the entire city to be on stilts, a way of remembering past mistakes so as not to repeat them, Tubbo said. He thought it was a brilliant idea, and said as much as he set out to help with the initial draining of water and mild terraforming of the crater.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even so, he felt restless as he watched Tubbo and Fundy, though it was mostly the former, slave away. Tommy was absent, and while Quackity knew that was because his excuse was that he was preoccupied with his discs, it still made him bitter. Tommy wasn't preoccupied with his discs every second of the day, so he should be able to spare some time to help them rebuild, and if he didn't try to put in the effort, why did he deserve the vice presidency?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was something Quackity wasn't bothered with at first, simply relieved that he maintained a cabinet position and that they weren't giving up L'Manburg in its entirety after the explosion, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought that maybe he should have been vice instead of Tommy. If he was really pushing it, he should have been president, but he wasn't too hung up on that, if only because he felt Tubbo shared the same ideals as him. Obviously, he didn't voice any of that, because that would be blasphemy and he wanted to give things some time to see how they actually panned out, but the thoughts were never forgotten.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> against voicing was his open disdain against Technoblade. He couldn't help but hold a grudge against the guy, for stunting their recovery further with his withers and openly branding Tubbo as a tyrant. He didn't understand his stance with anarchy - the way Quackity saw it, society needed some semblance of order, and governments did just that. Sure, there were hundreds of problems and their two previous presidents proved that, but abolishing the thing entirely would do more harm than good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He might have held a grudge against Wilbur too, but he was very much dead, so he settled on blaming everything on Techno instead. Fundy seemed to agree with him on that front, and Quackity felt like they silently bonded over that fact. Tubbo was more hesitant towards outright hatred, but he let them complain either way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity wanted justice. He didn't think it was fair to New L'Manburg or their people if Techno just got away with what he did scot-free. If he wasn't punished for his behaviour, he'd continue to try and topple them, and as much as he loved Tubbo and appreciated his efforts as president, his advocation for peace would come back to bite them in the ass if they didn't deal with this enemy first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he tried to think of a good solution, one that was plausible with their current resources - because sabotaging their rebuilding project was the last thing he wanted to do - while also standing a decent chance of working. And finally, with the heat of the noon sun beating down upon them, he finally had a solid plan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity rushed to tell Tubbo his plan immediately, abandoning the wood chopping he had been previously busy with. He grinned in visible excitement as he skidded to a stop next to a confused yet amused Tubbo, lacking the caution he once had when pitching ideas. He knew he'd be listened to here, and it was exhilarating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity pitched his plan for an army with a butcher theme, rambling with hand gestures using the hand that wasn't still holding his axe and a cunning glint in his eye. He described ideas for uniforms, weapons, traps and intimidation tactics. Tubbo, to his credit, didn't interrupt, instead listening with a mostly neutral expression and occasional nods to show he was paying attention while he continued to clean up the area.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"So?" Quackity asked, a little breathless from his extended explanation but giddy with pride. "What do you think?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tubbo hesitated, dragging out his hum of thought as he straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. "Well, it's not a bad shout. Maybe if Techno tries to attack us." He started slowly as he placed his hands on his waist, pressing his lips into a thin smile, brows downturned. "But I did say that I didn't want to cause chaos and violence, and doing something like creating an army against Technoblade specifically seems a little counterintuitive. I want to keep my word, you know?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a noble reason, and Quackity couldn't fault him for that, but he couldn't help the disappointment in his gut. He didn't let it show on his face even as his grip on his axe slackened, smiling back. "Yeah, yeah, no, I get it. You have the final say, Mr President!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tubbo's smile softened into something more genuine, as if relieved by the agreement. He opened his mouth to say something in reply, but was quickly distracted by Fundy calling for him from the other side of the crater, waving with a slight urgency. Tubbo placed a warm hand on Quackity's upper arm, tired eyes looking up at him as he passed. He wondered how much he was able to sleep the night before. "Let's just focus on rebuilding for now. I think the best thing we can do about Technoblade for now is leave him be."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity nodded, and Tubbo must have been satisfied with that answer, because he gave him a gentle squeeze before hurrying off, shouting back to Fundy in acknowledgement. He watched him leave, his wings lowering slightly as his smile slipped off his face. In hindsight, maybe an army designed entirely to antagonise Technoblade wasn't the best idea of a recovering nation. Maybe he should let it go-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinked out of his thoughts, startled as he glanced down to see his fingers tightening around the handle. He knew it must have been a subconscious move on his own part, but he could've sworn that he felt the vague feeling of fingers on his own, pressing his fingers into curling tighter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Either way, it felt like a sign. Tubbo may not entirely approve, but that didn't mean he couldn't reserve the idea for after they've successfully rebuilt L'Manburg. And before then, he could refine his plans so he had an undeniably good pitch when he had the chance to bring it back up with Tubbo later.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity smirked, reassured at the thought of justice, and swung his axe to rest against his shoulder, turning to get back to wood chopping as he pushed his other hand into his jacket pocket, fingertips brushing against wooden beads.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(He liked to think of Techno as the Roman high priest to Tubbo's well-meaning Jesus, no matter how ironic it was. Techno condemned Tubbo for his claim as president, for his rallying of the masses towards a reformed government, despite the fact that Tubbo's intentions were mostly pure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Techno would attack eventually, Quackity was certain of it, and demand Tubbo's crucifiction. And perhaps, Judas would be played by a member of his cabinet, one of those closest to him. Phil, most likely, who had more familial devotion to Techno than Tubbo. Fundy and Tommy each seemed to share his dislike of Techno, but he couldn't exactly rule it out when they, too, were directly related to the executioner themselves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity was sure he himself wasn't going to be Judas. At the very least, he wasn't going to be the Judas to Techno's high priest. No, when the time came, he would be Tubbo's Peter, who tries to protect him from the enemy and he would divert from the bible verse by succeeding. He would win with the forces of his butcher army behind him, and Tubbo would realise he was right all along. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And if Tommy did turn out to be the Judas of this tale- well, Quackity wouldn't complain if he got a promotion, even if it would be of the bittersweet kind.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As it turned out, ghosts existed, because the spectral image of Wilbur Soot had been hovering around the grounds of New L'Manburg. They affectionately referred to him as Ghostbur, for ease and also for the clear disconnect, in Ghostbur's mind, between him and living Wilbur. It was surreal, seeing the ghost act so innocent and polite, doing a hefty portion of rebuilding because he didn't need to rest like the living did, when Wilbur was the cause for the destruction to begin with. It was like they were two entirely different people with a shared bank of good memories.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was almost a little unnerving to Quackity, so he had no issues with the fact that Ghostbur mostly stuck around Tubbo. The less they interacted, the less he had to think about the concerning tidbits of information in the ghost's casual speech. The only time Ghostbur ever seemed to seek him out was if he wanted to listen to Quackity play his guitar and sing, because the ghost's vocal chords were a little ragged and singing certain things was a struggle. That, and apparently, Ghostbur had pinned Quackity as the assigned musician of the group, so he made the most sense to approach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity didn't mind. With music in between them, they typically didn't get into any possibly sensitive conversations, not like the ones he caught snippets of between Ghostbur and the others. Besides, it encouraged him to actually get back to his guitar - something he hadn't had the time to indulge in in much too long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His favourite place to sit and play guitar, with or without Ghostbur, was the bench near New L'Manburg's borders. Quackity knew it held some sort of importance to Tommy and Tubbo, so he never felt like it was right for him to actually sit on the bench, but he enjoyed sitting in the grass beside it, taking in the view as he mindlessly plucked strings. He began to frequent the spot on sleepless nights, the sparkle of distant stars and idle chords soothing his buzzing thoughts into silence as the soft light shed by nearby lanterns protected him from harm just like the rosary in his pocket. And unfortunately, his sleepless or otherwise long nights were getting more and more frequent, to the point that he simply kept his guitar at the bench instead of dragging it out there all the time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tonight, however, even the plucking of strings and quiet night breeze did nothing to calm him. Schlatt's funeral was scheduled in a few days, and for some reason, the event plagued his mind. It wasn't like he didn't know he was dead beforehand - he had seen the fucker die at his feet - but it seemed to be really sinking in now that something as final as a funeral was happening. He guessed there was a question on why Schlatt was granted a funeral when Wilbur wasn't, but he assumed there was also the fact that one of them showed up again as a ghost and one of them didn't. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity sighed heavily, rubbing at a crick in his neck as he put his guitar in its case before carefully setting it against the railing in front of the bench. He was in that strange state of tiredness, where he felt exhausted but knew that as soon as he hit the bed, he wouldn't be able to sleep. Still, he saw no point in staying out here, especially when it was starting to get chilly. It must be around 3am by now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The warm lights of New L'Manburg caught his eye as he walked back through the hill tunnel, a friendly wash of orange and yellow against the dark navy of the sky. The rebuilding of the nation was in full swing, most of the buildings already fully constructed and the remaining work lying in decoration. In complete honesty, Quackity thought that the city looked better than it ever had. Tubbo had suggested a material and style requirement for their buildings, and it had paid off, because the floating city looked uniform. Homely, and unified - exactly like the type of nation Tubbo would lead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thought made him smile, only slightly soured by the memory of Tubbo looking dead on his feet, running himself into the ground as he tried to do the best for his blooming nation. He was distracted as he approached the stairs, which was the only way he could explain the fact that his foot slipped, sending him over the path and down towards the river. It must have been a slip-up, because Quackity was sure he felt the distinct feeling of being pushed off, even though he knew nobody was there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite knowing that, he instinctively twisted in the air to look back up at the path as he fell, and out of the corner of his eye, he was sure he saw the flicker of a tall, suited figure leaning over the edge of the wooden walkway. It was gone before he could question it, like hallucinations tended to be, but even if it hadn't disappeared, he was suitably distracted by hitting the water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first thing he registered was that it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his brain short circuiting as he automatically held his breath. The water was dark, the surrounding hills and cliffs hiding the river from the moon's current position, and the light from New L'Manburg barely made it to the top of the water, let alone down to where Quackity was sinking further still. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(No, he thought, perhaps Tubbo was Noah rather than Jesus. He was the best of them all, the chosen one responsible for purging this cursed land of its sin. New L'Manburg was his Ark in every sense, spruce wood floating above the conflict, above the memory of destruction. His family, his citizens, were saved from that conflict with him, because they too were deemed worthy by proxy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Quackity? Quackity was a sinner, the man who caused Schlatt to come into power in the first place, because no matter how much he blamed George, he knew deep down he only had himself to blame. He was the one who shook on a coalition, not George. He was the one who wasn't able to stand up to Schlatt until they were too far in, not George. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And now the flood, the water, was punishing him for his crimes, his lungs aching as-)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A spiral of bubbles burst out of his mouth in place of an exhale, and Quackity snapped back into the terrible present. His fingers twitched in a belated reaction to the water, the webbing between them extending from where they idled closer to his palms out to his fingertips, as it usually did. The same happened to his toes, but with shoes on, it didn't make much of a difference. He began to push himself upwards, forcing his wings to move against the resistance of the water to propel himself faster, suppressing his panic in favour of action. Ducks were meant to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>on</span>
  </em>
  <span> water, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>underneath it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He broke the surface, gasping as he scrambled towards the shore, finding it a lot easier now that he was above the water like he was supposed to be. Quackity reached out, digging his fingers into the mud at the riverbank and pausing for breath, before finally dragging himself out of the water altogether. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He placed a hand over his chest as he heaved, shaking his wings, heavy with water, in the hopes to dry them a little. His feathers were waterproof, but as earlier stated, that was typically only a guarantee if he was on top of the water like he was supposed to be and not under it. His beanie was gone, swept away by the current and leaving his head bare. It was alright, because it was unlikely anyone would see him at this time of night and he had extra beanies in his house, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once he felt a little more steady, his brain having caught up with the events that had just unfolded, Quackity reached into his pocket for his rosary, yearning for the inherent comfort the beads provided. He froze when his fingers found nothing in his jacket, patting around and turning the pocket inside out before a numbness overtook his heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rosary was gone. It must have fallen out when he hit the water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes flickered to the river, momentarily wondering if he could find it if he dived back in, but in his heart, he knew it was gone. Quackity sighed, not particularly sad by the loss of the rosary itself, but rather the loss of the final thing he had left of his mother. She had been dead for years, but in a strange way, it felt like he had only truly lost her now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He dragged himself to his feet, shivering, miserable and numb. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the very least, he felt tired enough to sleep a dreamless sleep now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity wasn't sure where the idea had come from. He probably thought it would be funny.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Today was the day of Schlatt's funeral. Bad, the one hosting it, had said that formalwear was required, which reminded Quackity of a garment he had somehow found himself in possession of. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulled out a familiar suit and tie from his closet, definitely a bit too large for him, not that he really cared. Quackity was choosing to wear this less because it fit him, and more so as a fuck you to the dead. It had to be disrespectful to wear a dead man's suit to his own funeral, and it wasn't like Quackity was going to be polite about this event. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn't clearly remember how he got one of Schlatt's suits, honestly, but he does remember being amazed it survived the annihilation of Manburg. He still was, as he ran his fingers over the expensive fabric, noting how pristine it was despite everything it must have been through. He doesn't remember why he chose to keep it, because he was sure it wasn't because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>missed</span>
  </em>
  <span> the bastard, but for his purely disrespectful purposes, it was lucky he did.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he pulled it on, he noticed the familiar scent of cigar smoke and whisky still lingering on the fabric as opposed to the ash and gunpowder Quackity had been bracing himself for. In fact, it was shockingly potent, considering how long it had been, but to be fair, Quackity wasn't sure how long smells lasted on unwashed clothes. He focused instead on maneuvering his wings through a crudely made cut he had added to the back of the suit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of the lead up to the actual funeral went by in a whirlwind of giddy, unrestrained joy at the fact that Schlatt was </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>, mostly consisting of shouting his lungs out in celebration to anyone who would listen. Quackity barged into any conversation he could, practically shouting it off the rooftops; this was happiness, right? Of course it was, what else could it possibly be?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was overjoyed by the absolute joke the funeral turned out to be, because as it turned out, nobody in attendance held any respect for the dead dictator. Maybe if he wasn't in borderline hysterics with glee, he would have been a little horrified by the fact that everyone started tearing Schlatt's corpse apart as soon as his casket was rolled up, but as it stood, Quackity was more preoccupied with grabbing his heart and hiding it away in his inventory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He calmed down once the speeches started, though that may have something to do with the warning shot Tommy had aimed at him, missing him just enough to be harmless but not enough to lose the message behind it. Quackity sat relaxed in his seat in the front row, taking in the frankly satanic tomb in front of him as Tubbo's attempts at a somewhat appropriate speech began, sprinkled with honeyed insults towards the dead. One particular insult sent the audience into chaos, and Quackity laughed along, cheering the new president on while Bad desperately tried to bring some semblance of order to the funeral- only in name, of course, because everyone was really using it more to celebrate than to mourn, so a party might have been a more fitting title. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He succeeded eventually, and with a little pestering, Quackity was given the stand to say some words. He took a breath as he settled behind it, fixing his beanie as his eyes fell to the coffin, the heart in his inventory heavy in a way he couldn't describe. The voices in the back of his mind were urging him to eat it, any uniqueness to the voices blurring together into an amalgamation that he couldn't decipher, but the voices were normal. They came and went often, and he had long since gotten used to blocking them out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity did just that, ignoring them as he placed his hands on the stand and leaning forward, cheering out as he pumped a fist in the air; </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Can I get an ay ay!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of the gathering erupted into cheers, a majority jumping to their feet or bouncing in their seats as they clapped. Quackity cracked a grin, fuelled by the excitement that rippled through the crowd, before he cleared his throat and attempted to look as solemn as possible - because he was happy, he was overjoyed, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was, but he could pretend otherwise for the sake of comedy. He folded his hands together on the stand, letting his tone grow somber. "In all seriousness and jokes aside, I think serving next to Schlatt as his vice president allowed me to see a side to him that not many of you really knew." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity paused, his brows creasing slightly at the continued insistence of the voices at the back of his head, but he dismissed it easily enough as he looked down at his hands. "But if there's one thing I can say about Schlatt, it's that…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had been completely bullshitting the speech, and he wasn't sure where he was going with it. Quackity hesitated again, and in that pause, a new voice reached his ears, above the ones that usually lingered. It was dark, rough and the syllables held a certain poison to them, and strangest of all, Quackity thought he could feel breath against his ear paired with the words. </span>
  <em>
    <span>"Come on, don't you want to give 'im a final fuck you?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the end, Quackity wasn't sure what actually spurred him on; whether it was the expectant eyes of the company, the chanting voices, that one whispered taunt or a cocktail of them all. In the end, it didn't matter, because he felt a burst of determination as he bore a grin that might be a little too wide and shouted with a whoop. "AY, THE MOTHERFUCKER'S DEAD!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just like before, the crowd erupted into applause, but it was white noise to Quackity's ears as he pulled Schlatt's heart out of his inventory. The organ felt strange in his palm, leaking cold blood over his hand, but he didn't allow himself any moment of inspection or second thought before he brought it up to his mouth and bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>down</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(For as long as he could remember, he always wondered why Eve could have possibly given in to the Devil's temptation, in the Garden of Eden. If she knew the consequences of eating the fruit, how could she have possibly been enticed by something that was so clearly the worse option?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But here, he felt like he understood. Every fibre in his body knew it was a bad idea, but the lifeless heart in his hands - his forbidden fruit - had something so undeniably alluring about it. Maybe it was spite, maybe it was grief, or maybe it was something worse, but whatever it was made him yearn to taste it, no matter how horrible it would turn out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And even though Quackity knew that playing the role of Eve would never end well for him, the moment the Devil had whispered in his ear, he was done for.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn't a good experience. The texture was weird, chewy and squishy in places. The taste was even worse, blood filling his mouth with a rotten sort of aftertaste. It coated his teeth and the roof of his mouth, slid thickly down his throat, and he should have gagged. He should have coughed it up, or something, but for some reason, choking the thing down was easy, his throat immediately loosening with his attempt at swallowing the mush. Uncomfortable, but easy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were exclaims of surprise from the onlookers as well as the muffled voices at the back of his head, and all of a sudden, the taste of rot was replaced with the sweeter taste of wine. Quackity burst out in another cheer despite his grateful confusion at the sudden change, flaring his wings outwards as he savoured the new, much more pleasant taste on his tongue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He returned to his seat, deciding he had caused enough of a scene for now, and privately gave himself a moment to think of the feeling of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> thrumming in his veins, faintly tingly like static.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thought was dismissed as soon as he registered it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quackity felt a strong wave of manic hope with every beat of his heart, overtaking the bitter loneliness he had refused to accept until now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was hidden by the cover of night as he approached the tomb, pickaxe held in a trembling, white-knuckled grip. He needed to do this. He had to fix things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tubbo was a decent president, but he wasn't confrontational and he was sixteen. By all means, he shouldn't be able to be the president at all. He deserved freedom from that sort of stress, but his sense of duty to the nation meant that he wouldn't step down, so Quackity had to help him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Besides, Quackity stood for the people, and the people had initially voted him in. They wouldn't mind if he took power instead, he was sure - and then, New L'Manburg would be his and he could finally, finally lead it to glory like he had always wanted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he couldn't do it alone. Alone, people viewed him as a joke, and while he would be happy to prove them all wrong, he would never make any sort of progress towards that without some way to make them listen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Looming over a casket that held a familiar desecrated corpse, he felt like two people in one moment. He felt like a newly banished Adam, heartbroken and ashamed, but determined to right his wrongs. He felt like a freshly disgraced Lucifer, dragging his useless wings through the mud as he swore a bitter revenge and grinning with the madness sin brought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wondered if it was too late to pray for forgiveness now, with his rosary buried under the river and a dead man's heart implanted deep within his body, unmoving.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughed at himself, a hysterically breathless disbelief as he opened the casket. As mangled as it was, Schlatt's body was recognisable in death just as well as it was in life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Excitement washed over him as he reached for him, for the final piece of the puzzle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(He felt a warm hand against his back, sharp claws disturbing the feathers at his shoulder blades, and he realised what was so funny - a shared thread he had never recognised beforehand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He <strike><em>I</em></strike> always did like his <strike><em>my</em></strike> biblical references, didn't he <strike><em>I</em></strike>?</span>
  <em>
    <span>)</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>well boys, as it turns out, i am a big q stan before anything else so it goes without saying that the possibilities of this plot makes me VERY excited!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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